All the Words
by Rallalon
Summary: So this is what forever means. So this is what it is to live until you die.


Two figures sit alone in the park, faces upturned to the stars. She cuddles into his side for the warmth lacking in his alien skin, slightly chilled despite his arms and the blanket around them. His thumb stokes the back of her hand and she sighs into his neck.

"Comfortable?" he asks, voice tender and low and full of more concern than she really wants.

"Mm," she agrees, shifting slowly and with faint pain to pillow her head on his shoulder. "Show me where Earth is?" An old request, oft repeated.

The night air seeps in with them as he disentangles one arm to point out into the sky, his words a rumble by her ear, a relaxing babble that's only half informative. It stops when she shivers, his gesturing hand pulling both blanket and her tight against him. "All right?" he asks, as he often does.

"Mm," she agrees.

They sit in silence, she pretending not to see her breath, he simply holding her close as if he's afraid to let go. She can see white in the air and he's terrified, but still they remain, close and bundled and savoring what is to her a new sky. He picked it for her carefully, found the perfect date and place for them, checked the traditional three or four times before taking her out with him. Her smile was tight and his was apologetic and that's how it's been for so long that neither want to risk the changing of it in case it all disappears.

"Did you like it?" he asks, talking about parades and fireworks and things safe and suitable. He'd rather not be, yet he almost doesn't mind anymore.

"I love it," she tells him, not allowing for any past tense between them. There will be time for that later, for him. "Anytime I'm with you, I love it."

He smiles and she can see it in the light of three moons, a trio of crescents in the sky casting off enough light to be one full. She sees the smile and those deep brown eyes and in that moment, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes are only there from the expression, joyful crinkles in his youthful face. She finds herself loving him in instants, in burst of memory amidst the constant, slightly faded glow. His smile dims eventually, as it must, and he might state his reasons all over again, might try to explain to them both why it has to be like this now, why he has to go on without her and slay the dragons, banish the monsters alone. He might attempt to put into rambling words the thoughts and ideas and ways they could get around this, and he'd have to feel guilty afterwards for making himself so painfully obvious, for trying to change her when all he wants is for it all to stay the same.

She might say that she doesn't care, that she'd do what she has to do, whatever she has to do to stay with him, and she'd have to feel afraid afterwards, frightened of changing, scared he wouldn't love her if she did. So much has changed and she needs to hold on, needs to keep feeling his hand in hers, needs him almost as much as he needs her. She's so sorry and he's so sorry and they might say it all to each other tonight on this bench, wrapped in this blanket under these stars.

They don't need to.

All the words have been said long ago, leaving all the wishes, all the reasons, all the regrets, all the pains and all the laughter to simplify into the simplest of messages, their universal truth.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Cold fingers stroke her face, caress her features and she closes her eyes to his touch. She breathes out slowly, savoring the chill of the air, the taste of it as much as the feel of him, the taste of him when he presses his lips to hers, light, chaste, loving.

"You're beautiful," he says to her and when she laughs, he might be playing at being indignant or he might really be.

"Liar," she tells him, spurring him on.

"I am most certainly not," he contradicts. "You, Rose Marion Tyler, are absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent, complete-satisfaction-or-your-money-back-g uaranteed beautiful." His standards are strange and always have been to her, but as time goes on, she finds them so reassuring that she doesn't care about not understanding them.

Even still, there are times when more than reassurance is needed. "You remember the waitress at the restaurant?" she asks, and he looks at her like he's not sure how to answer.

"I remember that she was carrying food," he answers honestly, speaking his sentence as if puzzling out some mystery. "Well, I say carrying, I mean fumbling. It shouldn't be that hard to hold onto dishes with six hands, should it? Or maybe it takes longer to develop hand-hand-hand-eye coordination..."

She interrupts his rambling before he can distract her from what she doesn't want to tell him, something that's been bothering her for a while now, something that — amazingly — has yet to be shared between them. "She thought you were my son."

His babble ceases abruptly and he gapes at her, mouth opening and closing wordlessly before he settles on "When was this?"

"When you were in the loo," she answers, watching his face for anything he might give away there. She knows the little things now, knows them entirely and with her whole heart.

"Well," he says at last, "that explains the tip you left." There's a pause before he adds, "Kliptons aren't good judges when it comes to humans, Rose, you shouldn't-"

"Doctor," she interrupts once again, tapping him on the chest. "What were we celebrating today?"

"Our fifty-fourth," he replies, sounding somewhat defensive, his arms too tight around her. "Which I remembered this year."

"I'm just saying..."

"Rose," he pleads into her hair.

She finds his hand and covers it with hers, finding him cool and probably not very good for her joints. They listen to each other breathe and she knows he's counting, knows the clock is ticking in his head, knows he's already mourning her in this moment. She realizes the extent of his fear in his forgetfulness, his ever-so-careful embrace turned rough and possessive in a way he seldom dares for fear of breaking her. He kisses her again and surprises them both halfway through by laughing, so sudden and bright as to leave her dizzy.

"What?" she asks, already returning his growing grin.

"Just call me Oedipus," he replies.

They laugh and when they walk back to the Tardis, he's telling her myths of ancient tragedy and love and she's thinking about them, because it's all the same, really, it all boils down to that, their universal truth. They don't talk about how he has to help her up, how she keeps the blanket wrapped around her, how she leans on his arm a little more heavily than she did yesterday or the day before that. Those words have already been said, time and time again, said and said and said as three words fill in for three other words.

"I love you," he says, and what he means is "Stay with me."

"I love you," she says, and what she means is "I can try."


End file.
